


The Unusual Suspects

by Yahtzee



Series: UB Season Five: New York, New York [7]
Category: Ugly Betty
Genre: Flirting, Little Mermaid references, Multi, Mystery, New York Review of Books, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who's trying to kill Daniel Meade?  The list of suspects gets longer all the time -- and Betty and Daniel's impatience to see one another gets sharper all the time. But they learn the value of saying the thing that isn't being said ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unusual Suspects

Betty wedged her cell phone between her shoulder and ear as she double-checked all the files she wanted to bring into the office for her first day. “Are you standing near a window? Don’t! Guns can fire through windows.”

“I’m not near any windows,” Daniel promised. He lounged in the breakfast room of his childhood home, where he’d been staying (“hiding out” didn’t sound very dignified, he thought) since the revelation that someone was trying to kill him. The security system at the Meade mansion was state of the art, something he appreciated more after a couple of attempts on his life. What he didn’t appreciate was being trapped inside, day after day after day. MODE was mostly getting edited via email. “Stop worrying about me, okay? This is your big day!”

“Believe me, I remember. But if I don’t worry about you, then I might start worrying about me.” Betty quickly glanced at her reflection in the mirror: soft yellow dress, green cardigan, plaid bag. Hair sleek and bouncy. Perfect. “I’d rather be concerned about you and walk into my first day at NYRB calm and confident. Do you feel safe? Are you freaking out over there?”

“Only from boredom.” He glanced up to nod thanks to the cook who deposited a fluffy Belgian waffle in front of him, piled high with strawberries, on a fine china plate. “It’s like a _prison_ in here.” From the next room, Daniel could see Yoga giving him a look, but he felt like there were definite parallels she just wasn’t grasping at the moment.

“I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it soon,” she promised. “Then you’ll be free again.”

“But I’d rather be free today. Then I could see you off to your first day at work. Pack your lunch for you.” Daniel cradled the phone against his face as though it were her hand. “Make sure you had your milk money.”

Betty knew her smile would shine through in her voice. “That sounds – beyond sweet. You know, I could come by afterwards, tell you all about my day.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, suddenly as firm as she’d ever heard him. “You came way too close to getting hurt last time. It’s not worth the risk.”

“I want to see you.”

“And I want to see you, but not nearly as much as I want you to stay safe.”

Betty sighed. Daniel’s overprotective nature was as frustrating as it was endearing. “Well, the police had better get a move on finding whoever did this. I miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

For a moment, there was silence – not exactly comfortable, but nonetheless full of promise. She thought the wave of nervousness she felt was a lot like that of a small child looking at a Christmas tree piled high with presents that couldn’t be opened just yet.

 _I think about you all the time_ , Betty imagined saying. _I worry about you and wish I could hold you and I wonder what happened in my brain to turn you from my friend into this man I adore._

 _I can’t sleep at night for wanting you,_ Daniel imagined saying. _It’s like everything I do is just killing time until I can finally be with you. My entire life is this one long countdown until I kiss you at last._

But the pause in conversation only stretched out longer.

“Okay,” Betty finally said as she headed for the door. “I’m going out. Wish me luck.”

“I would if you needed it. You don’t. You’re going to knock ‘em dead.” Daniel paused. “Too soon after the shooting?”

“Kinda.” She couldn’t help grinning anyway.

“What I mean is – you’re the most brilliant, beautiful, fantastic woman that’s ever walked into that office. They’re going to know that the second you come through the door, because these guys are all smarter than me. It won’t take them nearly as long to figure that out.”

Her cheeks flushed, her heart to full for her to share with him as she ran downstairs, Betty said only, “You’re getting smarter all the time.”

He laughed, and once again she thought of Christmas morning.

**

Some people thought money solved anything. Tyler had once been one of those people, he mused, until money actually came his way.

Turned out having money made a whole lot of things much harder.

Take, for instance, sobriety. He’d managed to quit drinking while working as a bartender – not exactly a cakewalk – but he’d done it because he had to. Tyler went off the rails when he drank; going off the rails meant not showing up for work; not showing up for work meant no paychecks; no paychecks meant no paying the rent, which meant eviction notices. He liked living indoors. Hello, willpower.

But how could you hit bottom when all that money was in the way, cushioning your fall? He wasn’t even paying rent, just living in his mother’s palatial home. Sometimes, late at night in a restaurant, when he was dutifully sipping club soda while Marc and Amanda quaffed cocktails and strategized ways for Marc to flirt with some guy named Cliff – that was when Tyler started thinking about how he could buy any bottle of wine in the house, the finest whiskeys, the most exclusive champagnes. He didn’t have to scrape through his jacket pockets and see if he had money for a cab; there was a town car that showed up anytime he hit the speed dial on his cell. And if he acted out the way he sometimes had – well, bail would be easier to make than before.

Yeah, being rich made it harder to be sober. So far, Tyler thought he’d only remained on the straight and narrow because of two things: The terrifying memory of having pulled a gun on his own mother, and the bizarre miracle that was Amanda Tanen Sommers.

He sat up in her bed that morning, watching her sleep. He’d helped her drift off last night by tickling her back and telling her she was pretty – his idea of a good time. She reminded him of the kitten he’d had as a boy, with the way her playful, spoiled nature didn’t quite conceal the love and loyalty beneath the surface. Tyler gazed down at her and wished that adoring her could be enough to make him happy.

But it wasn’t.

Her alarm went off the same time it usually did; Amanda swatted at it in annoyance before frowning up at him. “Tell me it’s not Monday.”

“Sorry, it is.”

“Today I have to do a photo shoot with luggage.” She propped up on her elbows, golden curls all askew. “How am I supposed to make luggage look hot? They’re boxes. Boxes with handles. None of that is hot. I don’t even know what Daniel’s thinking. Maybe he went stir crazy since he’s, like, under siege.”

Tyler brushed her hair from her forehead. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about something.”

“I could tell. You didn’t make cinnamon rolls.” Amanda’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, but the concern in her eyes was clear. “What’s up?”

The words stuck in his throat, but he had to tell someone eventually, and there was nobody better to hear it than her. “I want to talk to my father.”

Amanda sat upright. “You mean your DNA, blood test, bio father. Your Cal Hartley father.”

Tyler nodded.

She bit her lower lip before saying, “Are you sure? He’s kind of an ass-munch.”

“So I’ve heard. But it doesn’t matter. He’s still my father.”

Amanda folded her arms over her knees. She remained silent long enough that he knew she was carefully considering her next words … which, in Amanda’s case, meant she was considering them, period. Normally there wasn’t much of an editor between her brain and her mouth. It was one of the best things about her. But it also made him listen more closely now. “I knew Fey Sommers a little. She never said anything special to me. I mean, I’m not sure she ever looked at me.”

“She has to have looked at you. You were her daughter, Amanda. It wasn’t coincidence that you ended up at MODE.”

“I know that, but – she never let me see her looking. Which is about as bad.” Her voice gentled as she said, “Still, I’m so glad I met her. It would’ve been a zillion times worse if I hadn’t.”

“Which is your way of saying you’ll help me talk to – Mr. Hartley.” What else could Tyler call him?

Amanda said, “It’s also my way of saying that this stuff doesn’t always go well. Sometimes it’s really crappy.”

“I need this.” It wasn’t about staying sober, at least not exactly; it was about finding out who he was. As long as he hadn’t looked his birth father in the face, Tyler felt as if some critical element of that was missing. And with money piling up all around him, cushioning every blow and concealing every view, self-knowledge was more important than ever.

“I know you need it. So we’ll get it for you.” Amanda folded her arms around him, as if she could grab all the good things in the world for them both, just that easily. If anybody could do it, it would be her.

**

“My,” said the receptionist behind chunky black glasses frames that made Betty’s look subtle. “How – colorful.”

“Thanks!” Betty already realized that wasn’t necessarily a compliment.

Where MODE’s offices were accented with “rumba orange” and peopled with staffers as slender and bright as butterflies, NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS seemed to be very, very committed to beige. Also gray. Black and white were favored too. But mostly beige and gray.

Instead of the Tube, there was an ordinary corridor with vintage framed covers at poster size and endless bookshelves piled high with publisher ARCs. Old frayed Persian rugs topped the thinner office carpet in places, but even these were mostly camel-colored. Even the buzz of conversation around the office was muted, almost hushed, and people walked slower on their way through the halls. At 26, Betty had been near the median age of a MODE staffer; already she could tell she was probably the youngest person here, maybe by a decade.

 _So what_ , Betty told herself. _You’ve been a fish out of water before. Heck, you’ve never been IN water. You’re like – a lungfish. Or something. You know how to do this!_

 _But this was supposed to be my fishtank …_

Then Jackson Noble stepped out, and it became much easier to smile. He had interviewed her for the job – he was a handsome man in a sort of overripe frat boy way, with dark blond hair shot through with silver at the temples and a strong jaw and good build that nonetheless was slightly padded with the aftereffects of good wine. His shirt was a daring-for-this-place navy blue. “Betty! I see HR’s processed you in record time. You’re in time for the monthly pitch meeting.”

“Sounds great.” Though she’d expected to have a few days to get her feet under her before having to pitch ideas, she’d prepared something just in case.

 _See?_ Betty told herself. _This is going to be your fishtank after all. Even if you are the only one who wears colors. That just makes you the tropical fish! Consider Nemo found._

And she felt really good until about five minutes into the meeting.

“Obviously you want to delve into the question of how Bishop’s poetry has been edited,” Jackson said to a gray-clad staffer who nodded and jotted notes in a forbiddingly thick file; at NYRB, people did more research on their pitches than some doctoral candidates did for their theses. “That’s critical. But I want to see more appreciation of the poetry itself.”

The staffer nodded. “I particularly want to examine the psychology of how she deals with liminal spaces.”

People murmured agreement. Betty wanted a thesaurus.

“So, Jodie’s replacement has come to save us – from Jodie, anyway – ” As Jackson said it, people chuckled, and the mood suddenly felt more like MODE than it had before. Not in a good way. “I realize we’re throwing you into the deep end, Betty, but do you have anything to suggest?”

“Yes,” Betty said. “I want to write about drag.”

(You could take the girl out of MODE, but …)

For the next five minutes, she went through the latest scholarly and pop works on drag queens, the mainstreaming of drag culture, and how the fashion industry was embracing that influence more openly than ever before. Familiar with NYRB’s format, she was careful to bring in at least five recently released books that could serve as sources and inspiration for the article. It was sharp. It was edgy for NYRB, but not beyond the pale. It drew on her most recent work experience to build a bridge to her new publication. It was a good pitch, and she was proud of it.

But when she finished, nobody said anything for a long moment.

“I like it,” Jackson finally said, “but it’s not quite there yet.”

Betty pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Oh. I see. Do you feel like it’s not – focused enough on any one publication, or – ”

“It’s not that. It’s just … you’re doing a great job of telling me what people are saying about drag these days.” Jackson took off his glasses and chewed thoughtfully on the earpiece for a moment. People really didn’t worry about their image here. “A great NYRB article, though – that tells us what people aren’t saying.”

“I need to report on what’s not being said,” Betty repeated.

He grinned. “I knew you’d get it. Bring it back to me in a few days, okay?”

She didn’t get it.

But he took her to lunch afterward, which was pleasant and filled with harmless office gossip, and Betty resolved to find her way out of the quandary. Best of all was looking down at her phone as she walked back to her new office to see a text from Daniel: _How’s it going, superstar?_

 _My first pitch meeting was kind of terrifying. But I survived._

 _Of course you blew them away._

 _Not quite. They want me to talk about what isn’t being said._

 _Huh?_

 _IKR?_

 _Huh again?_

 _I know, right? That’s what IKR stands for._

 _Oh! Got it._

Betty had to smile. Daniel could take an extra couple minutes to catch on sometimes. But then, that was true of her too, at least in this place …

And then she thought of one possible interpretation of “what’s not being said.”

It didn’t apply to her article pitch in the slightest.

**

Yoga’s cell phone rang, playing “I Kissed A Girl” by Katy Perry. She answered it, “For the last time, Fish, I’m being careful.”

“He’s a dangerous man,” Claire said. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?”

“Hell, no. This is your son we’re talking about. You’re not going to stay cool. And cool is what we need here. Trust me on this.”

“But someone could go with you. Tyler, perhaps. Let me call him.”

“Too late. I see him. He’s gonna see me soon. Better not to give him extra time to get ready. I like the element of surprise.”

“The police could handle this.”

“First of all, so far as I can tell, the police aren’t doing shit, and second of all, this is the same law-enforcement agency that thinks I died in a prison escape four years ago. You want that brain trust protecting Daniel?”

Claire sighed. “Fine. Let him have it.”

“I intend to,” Yoga said, before snapping off her phone and crossing Strawberry Fields to face Connor Owens.

He sat on one of the nearby benches, staring down at the sunflower-styled mosaic that read only IMAGINE. Although he couldn’t have recognized her, he nonetheless looked up as she came close; this was a wary man.

“Interesting to find you here,” she said. “Most violent criminals I’ve known weren’t big Beatles fans. I tend toward the Rolling Stones, myself.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A friend of the Meade family. Which is bad news for you, by the way.”

Connor leaned back on the bench, spreading his arms wide across the top. He was one confident mofo; she’d give him that. Handsome, too, if you went for guys. “Have they given up on wheedling the DA to rescind my parole? Are you here to break my fingers instead?”

“Could if I wanted to.”

“I’m tougher than I look.”

Yoga replied, “I’m exactly as tough as I look.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at her. “You’re a die-hard bitch, aren’t you?” Then his face split in a grin. “I like that in a woman.”

Now that they understood each other, Yoga thought, they could get down to business. “You heard about the helicopter accident a few weeks back.”

“Couldn’t have missed it.”

“Might not have been an accident.”

“Ah. So someone else thinks it might have been me.” Connor took a sip from his bottle of water. All around them, tourists snapped photos of the mural; one aging hippie lady dropped flower petals onto it, obscuring the letters in IMAGINE until it became only IMAGE. “In other words, someone else is wrong.”

“You’ve got a hate on for Daniel Meade.”

“You think I’m the only one? Talking to everyone he’s screwed over in this city – or simply screwed – it’s going to take you a while.”

“You’re the only convict.”

“In other words, I’m the one with the most to lose by attempting to kill him. The obvious first suspect. The easiest to jail. I’d have to be idiotic to try something like that, and I assure you, I am no fool.”

That much, Yoga could believe. “Your temper could get the better of you.”

“I prefer colder kinds of revenge.”

“You don’t think you’ve had your revenge already?”

Connor seemed to consider that for a while, staring up at the skyline framing the west edge of the park. Finally he said, “I’m a 36-year-old man with an Ivy League education and a brilliant c.v. that ends abruptly with my conviction on an embezzlement charge. My career is sunk, which means I get to spend my days hanging out in Central Park, trying to act as though I’m on the world’s longest lunch break. The girl I intended to marry is buried under a tombstone with Daniel’s last name on it. My future is blank except for the love of a woman who’s got to notice, sooner or later, that I’m nothing but a weight around her neck. There’s no such thing as proper revenge for that. And these days I’m learning how little I care for futility.”

“So you say you’re not going after Daniel because it wouldn’t do you a damn bit of good.” Yoga folded her arms. “Any reason why I should believe you?”

“Not one in the world. But keep digging. You’ll find someone else who’s angry with Daniel Meade.” Connor winked at her. “I’m sure of that.”

**

Daniel was bored out of his skull.

Editing only filled so many hours a day. Without the meetings, the lunches with designers, the model casting sessions, or Wilhelmina’s verbal traps, his work went fairly smoothly. This meant he had to explore every other thing he could do in his house.

One week in, and already he had:

-read one of his mother’s books, THE SHELL SEEKERS, which was mostly about an old lady in England but had flashbacks to when she’d been young and in love during World War II. She’d dressed eccentrically and been disapproved of for her warm nature and disregard of propriety, so he imagined Betty in the starring role. This was more rewarding before the male love interest, whom he had made Daniel-shaped, died tragically.

-gotten back in the groove in terms of his push-ups and sit-ups, because he’d let things get a little slack in the year since Molly’s death and he wanted to be able to bring the big guns out for Betty.

-watched, commented on and favorited all of DJ’s skateboarding videos on YouTube, as well as vids featuring the antics of many small, cute animals, some of which he emailed to Betty.

-found his and Alex’s old toybox, which included a model plane kit they’d never opened up, which he began building. Daniel figured it would be something to show Betty … via iPhone photo, of course.

He breathed out in frustration as he carefully used tweezers to affix a decal on the tail. The fact was, it didn’t matter what he came up with to do at his mother’s house. The only thing he wanted to be doing right now was spending time with Betty, and that was the one thing he couldn’t do, for her own safety. Talking to her on the phone wasn’t the same. They were on the verge of something – something amazing – and he’d never done well with anticipation. The waiting was bugging him much more than the fact that somebody apparently wanted him dead.

Which was maybe not the ideal set of priorities. Daniel realized that. But there it was.

Maybe nobody was actually trying to kill him. The police hadn’t proved anything, after all. Helicopters could crash for no reason. Random drive-by shootings weren’t as common in New York City as they’d been in the 1980s, but they weren’t impossible. And nothing had happened to him in days now, right? The killer must have given up, if there was even a killer to start with.

After a few minutes of consideration, Daniel had more or less talked himself into believing that nobody was really trying to hurt him. However, he knew talking Betty into this would be a lot harder.

Just as he smoothed the model plane’s decal out to perfection, his phone rang. “Hey, there you are,” he said, getting up from his project to flop down on his childhood bed. “How was it?”

“Petrifying. My first pitch was kind of … off.”

She described what the issue was, though it didn’t make much sense to Daniel. “How are you supposed to write an entire article about what people aren’t saying?”

“I have to think about that,” Betty said. “I mean, I started thinking about it, and I came up with something.”

“Okay, pitch me.” Daniel slid his free arm under his head, ready and willing to play the part of an NYRB editor.

“It’s not about the magazine. It’s about us.” Her words rushed out, a bubbling brook that flowed over him. “Daniel, we’ve been talking about everything in the world for the past month except what’s going on with you and me. I mean, we talked about it a little, but only a little, and even less now that we’re not able to do anything but talk. Doesn’t it seem like talking would lead to, well, more talking?”

“I … guess?” He tried to follow this, thought he had it, and frowned. “Betty – there’s so much I want to say to you, but over the phone – for the first time – I don’t know.”

Betty sighed. “Believe me, I understand. But you and I have been trying to find the ideal time to talk for a while now. Ideal times – they’re hard to come by. Maybe we should look at this period where we can only talk on the phone as an opportunity, you know? Let’s say what needs to be said.”

That made good sense. Daniel’s spirits brightened. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”

“Right?”

“Right!” A long silence followed.

And got longer.

And longer.

Finally he said, “You go first.”

“ _Daniel_.”

“It’s awkward! Just – plunging in like that. Things were so much easier when you could get somebody to check a box on a note. Do you like me? Yes. No.”

“That was _junior high._ ”

“Still!”

“I know. I tell you what. We’ll trade questions. Back and forth. Just to get started. Okay?”

At that moment, the only question Daniel could come up with was What are you wearing?, but he’d just have to think of something else. “Sure. Okay.”

“Well – when did this change for you? How you felt about me.” Betty’s voice was thinner – almost tight – and Daniel realized suddenly how nervous she was. Almost frightened. “We’ve been friends for so long, and it’s not like I was pining over you all this time. And I know you weren’t pining over me all those years you were shagging supermodels.”

“Hilda’s wedding. That was when it changed.”

“Wow. That was a really definite answer.”

“I remember it like it was yesterday.” Daniel smiled softly as he thought about it. “You remember how I freaked out about you taking Henry as your date, right? That was, uh, extreme. And I didn’t get why I’d acted that way, until Hilda gave her wedding toast. When she said that protecting someone no matter what was love – said she’d married her best friend – I just looked across the room at you and it hit me, like, wham.”

“Oh, my God. I never dreamed –”

“I wasn’t ready to say anything yet. Obviously. But man, when I walked up and asked you to dance – my heart was going about a thousand miles an hour in my chest.”

Betty giggled, a sound he’d cherished before but warmed him even more now. “That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

“What did you think I’d say?

“That it was the night I got my braces off.”

“Huh? No.” Daniel considered this as he rolled onto one side. “I mean, I did end up thinking about your smile a lot after, but – still oblivious.”

“The wedding. Hilda’s toast. Okay.” He could hear her happiness, and it was almost as good as seeing it. Daniel could just imagine her, curling up on her sofa, kicking off her shoes, beaming at what he’d just said. “You know, a couple of their wedding pictures show us dancing. I’m never going to look at those the same way again.”

“I want to see those too. Listen – before I told you – you sounded kind of nervous.”

“Well, I was. I really didn’t want you to say it was about the braces.”

He propped up on the bed. “Wait. You seriously thought I might have wanted to go out with you just because you got your braces off?”

“It makes a difference,” she said simply.

“Not to me.” That was something he hadn’t known was true before now, but the very fact that it had never occurred to him before struck Daniel as proof that it was so. “What about you? When did you realize you were – you know – ” They were at a weird phase in their relationship, at least with terminology. “That you didn’t just see me as a friend?”

“The day you showed me your new apartment, and we split that cookie.”

Never in a thousand years would Daniel have guessed this. “The one dollar cookie from the deli?”

“Uh-huh.”

All he could think of to say was, “That must have been a great cookie.” Was it chocolate chip or oatmeal? He needed to know these things!

“Silly, it wasn’t about the cookie. You had been so awesome coming through for me the past few weeks before that, and when you helped me take care of Papi that weekend – I don’t know. I guess I was realizing how important you’ve always been to me. But it was something about the way you looked at me when we broke that cookie between us. That was what made me think, you know. _Oh_.” Betty’s words made Daniel’s ego swell like the sails of a ship in the breeze, until she blithely added, “I’d never been attracted to you before that.”

The breeze stopped. The sails sagged flat. “… never?”

“Nope. Well. Maybe one time.”

He sat up on the bed, feeling more enthusiastic already. “Tell me about the one time.”

Her voice turned up at the edges when she was feeling mischievous – like crepe paper crinkled around a present, he thought. “Do you remember that night after the whole Sofia mess when you and I went out and sang karaoke and all of that?”

“Of course I do. That was the first time for me, too.”

“The first time you sang karaoke?”

“No. I mean, yes, but the first time I realized I could be attracted to you. I wasn’t anywhere near doing anything about it, but I just remember thinking, you know – this is a woman. A woman worth having.”

“Really?” Betty laughed in delight. “Wow, I didn’t get nearly that far.”

“But I thought you said – ”

“Yeah, but when we were actually on the bridge, I was just like, Daniel’s a nicer guy than most people realize. The other part -- it was that morning, when I finally got home and went to sleep. I had this dream about you.”

Whatever ego bruising might have resulted from the revelation about the bridge was instantly erased. “Tell me.”

“It wasn’t much. We were in the office alone, late, like we often were, and you just – ” Her words softened, warming Daniel to the core. “You walked up to me and kind of, I don’t know, backed me against the wall. Not in a scary way. In a good way. I remembering thinking in the dream that this should feel strange, but it didn’t. It was amazing. Then you leaned down and bit me – not too hard. Right where the neck meets the shoulder. Just hard enough for me to feel it. I woke up so – well, so turned on, I could hardly breathe.”

Daniel knew how that felt. He was feeling it right now. Why was that so maddeningly erotic, the thought of gently biting her just there? “That is … crazy hot.”

“I could hardly look at you the next morning,” Betty confessed. “But I told myself the dream was probably symbolic or something.”

He started laughing, and she did too, and he had to admit – there was something to this thing where you said whatever you hadn’t been saying before.

**

Yoga had to admit that Connor Owens had been right about one thing: There were a whole lot of people who had reasons to dislike Daniel Meade.

“Daniel and I get along a lot better these days,” Wilhelmina said as she examined her French manicure for any potential chips or scratches. Her nails were perfect, of course. They didn’t dare be otherwise. “Ask anyone.”

“You’ve spent most of the last four years trying to throw him out of his job,” Yoga pointed out. “Ask anyone.”

Wilhelmina shrugged. “I’ve made my peace with it. Someday, I’ll strike out on my own. Someday soon, I think. If MODE is so precious to Daniel, let him have it.”

Yoga folded her arms as she reclined in the fancy-shmancy leather chair in Wilhelmina’s office. Damn, magazine people had it nice. Not as nice as financiers, which was why she was glad she’d chosen to scam them instead – but nice. “You spend a whole lot of time with a guy who’s got a bigger problem with Daniel than you ever did.”

That got a reaction even more vehement than the one Yoga had been hoping for. Wilhelmina leaned across the desk, her lilac suit bunching at the shoulders to reveal that this woman was as much linebacker as supermodel, at least when she was angry. “Leave Connor out of this. He’s assured me he won’t bother the Meades again, and I believe him.”

“You had to ask him, though. And who knows – maybe you thought the best way to make sure Connor didn’t hurt Daniel was to make sure he didn’t have the chance.”

“You think like the convict you are,” Wilhelmina snapped. “Listen, sister, you think I outmaneuvered Anna Wintour by being a pushover? Think again.”

“Don’t ‘sister’ me,” Yoga said. “We’ll talk about this some other time.”

Some of the suspects were people Yoga was curious to see for – other reasons.

“Let me get this straight,” Cal Hartley said, across a boardroom desk bigger than some beds. “You’re a … private investigator?”

“I prefer to call myself a friend of the family.” This nicely got around Yoga having to mention that she didn’t have a license. “It’s no secret that there’s bad blood between you and the Meades.”

“Claire and I used to get along quite nicely,” Cal retorted. “Trust me, my wife’s never gonna let me forget that.”

He said it so smoothly that Yoga realized he couldn’t have had any clue how that would affect her. This self-satisfied douchebag had once run a number around her Fish. More than once. Fish had the dude’s baby, who turned out to be a nice-looking, good kind of guy like Tyler. And still Hartley treated her like crap. Who could do that to a lady like Claire Meade? From the first time they met – in their cell, where Fish had stolen one of Yoga’s Virginia Slims and the resulting fistfight had somehow, within minutes, turned into a conversation about how occasionally you just had to torch some bitch’s car and that was all there was to it – Yoga had felt like it was obvious that Fish deserved better than most people. Not worse. Not what this tool had given her.

Well, if he’d turned Fish off men for life, Yoga figured she owed the guy a favor. She wasn’t going to do it for him today.

“You’ve accused the Meades of lying about the fact that Tyler Hamill’s your kid,” Yoga said. “You gave Daniel Meade in particular all kinds of shit. At the HOT FLASH soiree, you made it damn clear you wanted them to back off for good about you being the baby daddy. Sure you didn’t decide to take that into your own hands?”

“Yes, I’m the kind of moron who angrily confronts people in public before I try to kill them,” Cal snapped. “If you’re not going to give me credit for enough morality to not murder people in cold blood, at least give me enough credit to act on advice of my legal counsel.”

“You’re stupid enough to walk away from Fish, you’re stupid enough for anything.”

The man’s scowl deepened. “Why are you talking about fish?”

“Never mind,” Yoga sighed, rising to leave before he threw her out. Ever since her jailbreak, she’d come to especially value leaving on her own terms.

Some suspects, at least, could be eliminated immediately.

“I realize that, in the public imagination, I stand for all the girls Daniel Meade ever treated badly.” Sofia Reyes strolled easily down the street outside the Meade Publications building, slipping on her sunglasses as Yoga did the same. “But I never had any personal reason to dislike Daniel. He’s the one who has reason to hate me, not the other way around.”

“Can’t be easy, though. Working for your ex. Particularly an ex who hates your guts.”

“Daniel’s always behaved very maturely about that. I misjudged him, really. He’s a decent man. But – I did what I had to do. My magazine rose to prominence because of that stunt, and we’re still one of the company’s main moneymakers.” Sofia shrugged. “We’ve all moved on.”

Sounded about right.

But someone, somewhere, had been done wrong by Daniel Meade, or believed he had, anyway. And that person had definitely not moved on.

That person wouldn’t move on until Daniel was dead.

**

Betty’s neck had cramped up a long time ago, so she now had her Bluetooth earpiece on as she made her dinner waffles, the better to keep their conversation rolling.

“Waffles for dinner?” Daniel said.

“Hey, I’ve got Tae Kwon Do later. I have to do some carb loading.” Betty paused. “Wait, did I just defend my food choices? I try not to do that.”

“Didn’t mean to set you up for it. That just sounds – well, it sounds good, actually.”

“You had a waffle for breakfast.”

“Can’t have too many waffles.”

“Point taken.” Betty smeared a bit of butter atop her waffles, the knife scraping against the crusty surface. “So, tell me more about this thing on the bridge. Where you figured out I was a ‘woman worth having.’”

Daniel’s voice gentled as he said, “You were just so – freaking adorable that night. Wait. That’s not poetic, is it? Freaking.”

She had to laugh. “You don’t have to be poetic. Just honest.”

“Okay. Well, you were freaking adorable. Showing up at the restaurant like that, and sharing your wine with me at karaoke – that was kind of the hot move, actually. Not that I was evolved enough to realize I ought to work with that yet. But I did think, us drinking out of the same glass – kinda sexy.”

“Dork. You just left yours on the table.”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have given me a sip?”

“I would now,” she said, only realizing after she’d said it that the whole thing sounded like a bit of a double entendre. Then again – they were talking about romance, right? About maybe being in a relationship together. Flirting. Sooner or later, that led to sex.

And sex was a _lot_ easier to do than to talk about.

But hadn’t she told Daniel that they needed to be open and honest with each other? Wasn’t this period of enforced physical separation best used to bring them closer together emotionally? Didn’t she need to get used to talking about this with him eventually? If they were going to do it, she had to at least be able to say it.

“So,” she said, toying nervously with her fork, “about sex.”

The sound that followed was sort of like when air got in the plumbing and made the faucet explode. “Jesus,” Daniel coughed, sputtering. “You had to say that right when I drank a mouthful of club soda.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay! That is – a good topic. I like that topic. I just, uh, got club soda on the counter. And the fridge. Maybe the ceiling.”

Betty’s grin stretched her mouth even wider. “I mean, I don’t want us to rush things …”

“No rushing. Definitely no rushing.”

“…but we have known each other for almost four years, which certainly goes way past rushing it …”

“Certainly. Absolutely.”

“You’re going to agree with anything I say about this, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, stop it.”

“But what if I really do agree?”

As she cut a slice of waffle, she said, “Just tell me what you’re feeling.” She heard a soft chiming in the background. “What’s that?”

“The doorbell,” Daniel said, his voice oddly distant.

Then Betty realized why he sounded so strange. He was staying at the Meade mansion for his own safety – which meant any guests he didn’t know about had to be uninvited. “Don’t answer it. Tyler can get it, or your mom.”

“They’re both out. Yoga too. And Yoga’s definitely the one I’d send.” The door chimed again. “Listen – it’s probably one of Mom’s society friends. Or a delivery. Or Amanda, looking for Tyler, if they’re not together.”

“You have to be careful!” Betty insisted. “Someone’s trying to kill you.”

“Are they? It’s not like we have total proof that the crash wasn’t an accident, and the shooting really could’ve been a drive-by. And it’s been days now without anybody making a move, including me.” He sighed in apparent frustration. “Plus I’m sick of being cooped up in this house instead of being with you.”

This was why you didn’t talk about sex on the phone! It made men frustrated, and then they did stupid things. “You stay put, Daniel.”

“Okay, okay. I’m gonna check the door, though. Because this is ridiculous.”

“Daniel!” Betty put one hand over her mouth as she heard his feet against the marble floor of the foyer, and the opening of the door. A moment of silence followed, which made her heart beat even faster.

But that was nothing compared to the terror that struck her as she heard the voice of Connor Owens: “What, no hug?”

 

**

Basically, Daniel had counted on opening the door to anyone, absolutely anyone, besides the main suspect in his own attempted murder. As he stared at Connor, all he could think was, _Betty was right. She’s always right. How have you not learned this by now?_

“Daniel!” Betty’s voice over the phone was frantic. “Are you okay? Say something!”

“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s Connor Owens.”

“Then you’re not fine!”

She yelped loudly enough for Connor to overhear, apparently, because Connor sighed and held out each side of his blazer in turn. “Look,” he said. “No guns. You can search me for a knife if you want. I presume you’re not stupid enough to be alone.”

Daniel hurriedly said, “Of course not! Everyone else is … upstairs.”

Connor gave him a look. “We clearly need to talk. Do we have to do it out here?”

Letting Connor in seemed like a bad idea. On the other hand, they’d been face to face for a few minutes, and Daniel continued to be alive. So if Connor was trying to kill him, he probably wasn’t trying to do it right this second, at least. That was more comforting than it ought to have been.

“Come in,” Daniel said. When Betty made a small squeaky sound on the other end of the phone line, he added, “Betty, if I don’t text you in five minutes, call the cops.”

“You watch him!” Betty insisted, but she hung up, leaving them to speak.

Connor strolled through the foyer, taking in the scene. “Haven’t been here in a while.”

Had it been 15 years since the two of them galloped through this house as college students on break, stinking of cheap beer and making Mom laugh despite herself? In some ways, it felt like yesterday; in others, it seemed as if that had to have been a fantasy, not reality.

“You’re not here to talk over old times,” Daniel said, more harshly than he’d intended. “So tell me what you are here for. Let’s get it over with.”

“Fine.” Connor shot him a look of pure venom. “You despise me. I don’t blame you. The feeling’s mutual, and I doubt you blame me. Whatever shitstorm you’re caught up in right now – I haven’t got a damned thing to do with it, but I understand why you wouldn’t take my word for it. What I don’t understand is why you want to drag Willie into this.”

“Wilhelmina?” Well, he hadn’t seen that coming.

“Your mother’s hired goon questioned her today.”

Yoga was more of a volunteer goon, but Daniel decided to let that slide for now.

“Willie insists you lot are all on the same team these days,” Connor continued. “Even threatened to toss me out on my ear if I so much as made a move against you. And as much as I hate you, Daniel, I don’t hate you more than I love her.” His voice grew rougher, quieter. “She’s loyal, whether you realize it or not. So don’t punish her for what I’ve done. Or what you think I’ve done. She deserves better than that, from you and from me.”

Good God. The man was here pleading for Wilhelmina’s job.

Slowly, Daniel said, “I trust Wilhelmina.” He thought it over. “Sort of. Enough, anyway.”

The tension bunching up Connor’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Fine, then. I’ll leave you to whatever the hell you were doing.”

He moved to go, and Daniel felt it was wisest to let him leave – but then he found himself remembering what Betty had mentioned earlier. About the important of what wasn’t being said. What had he and Connor not spoken about? How much did it affect what was happening between them now?

The truth was as simple as it was difficult to state out loud.

As Connor neared the front door, Daniel said, “Molly wasn’t in pain.”

Connor froze in place.

“At the end, I mean.” Daniel took a couple steps closer to him. “Our downstairs neighbor – Mrs. Chen, maybe you remember her – anyway, Molly asked to borrow this bracelet of hers. For the magazine awards banquet that night. She was … all dressed up, in this red satin gown. Excited. I’d left her only a few minutes before. Nothing was wrong except that she felt a little tired.”

It helped, thinking of her as she’d been that night. Molly had never cared much for glamour or glitz, but red satin – she should’ve worn it more often. And she’d glowed with pride and anticipation.

“Mrs. Chen had a spare key. So when Molly didn’t answer the knock, she let herself in. She was just going to drop the bracelet off for her. Molly lay on the sofa, like she did when she needed to rest for a few seconds. Head on the cushions. Feet up. Her face looked … peaceful. Probably she thought she only needed a catnap.”

How Daniel hoped and prayed that was true. The single hardest thing to face about Molly’s death was the fact that she’d died alone. If she hadn’t known that moment for what it was, hadn’t recognized the experience of dying before she drifted off, then she wouldn’t have been afraid. Daniel needed to believe that she hadn’t been afraid.

To judge by the look on Connor’s face when he turned back toward Daniel, he needed to believe that too.

“She refused treatment,” Daniel said. “I tried everything I could to talk her into trying – something, anything, just trying. But she said she’d had enough of chemo and radiation and feeling like crap all the time. Molly wanted the last months of her life to be good ones. So I married her, and I brought home cupcakes at least once a week, and I pretended to like ‘Dancing With the Stars,” and I loved her the best way I knew how, all the way to the end. She was happy as she could be, considering what she was going through. There wasn’t a lot of pain. There was a lot of laughing. So if you’re feeling – if you feel guilty for not being there, don’t.”

“Fuck you,” Connor said. “You don’t know what I’m feeling.” But he blinked fast, and his voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

Daniel shrugged. Well, he’d tried.

His phone vibrated once in his hand, and he looked down to see a text from Betty: _OMG I’m calling 911._

Quickly he typed back: _It’s all good! Connor’s ok. Not trying to kill me._

 _Don’t scare me like that!_

 _Sorry!_

 _Going to TKD. If Connor gives u trouble text me and I’ll come kick his ass._

Despite the somber mood in the room, Daniel had to smile a little. _OK._

“I met her just after her remission, you know.” Connor’s hands were jammed into his pockets, as if that was the only way he could restrain himself from moving. “Molly said her survival was a miracle. She made me believe – that anything was possible. Even me living an entirely different kind of life. Being an entirely different kind of man.” His expression was horrible – caught between a smirk and a grimace of pain. “Guess the miracles ran out for all of us.”

Daniel’s throat tightened, but he managed to say, “Molly got the only miracle she asked for – more time. More happiness. More love.” He thought of Betty across town, worrying about him, blithely talking about sex and waffles in the same breath and tone of voice. “That’s still out there for us, I guess. If we’re as brave as Molly was. If we run out there and take it.”

Connor wiped at his face; Daniel did him the courtesy of not looking too closely to see any evidence of tears.

Finally Connor said, “You’ll leave Willie alone.”

“MODE wouldn’t be the same without her. Besides, she’s not a suspect.” Nor was Connor, in Daniel’s opinion: After this, he knew they could scratch him off the list of people to be questioned. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was as sure of it as he’d ever been of anything. Maybe that was Molly telling him, from beyond, how she’d once seen something in Connor Owens worthy of love.

Hadn’t he, back in the days when they were friends?

“All right, then.” Connor stalked to the door. He paused with it half open and looked back at Daniel; though he said nothing, when their eyes met, the old recrimination was finally gone. Their friendship was nowhere near resurrection, if such a thing was even possible, but maybe the hatred could start to fade.

When the door shut, Daniel thought again how amazingly powerful it was – saying the thing that hadn’t been said.

Betty really was right about everything.

**

The second round of suspects were perhaps less likely people to consider – but still a dangerous, volatile lot.

“I’m in France,” Alexis said. “Across the Atlantic Ocean.”

“You’ve hired hit men before,” Yoga pointed out. She sat in the head office of Meade Publications – Fish was in a HOT FLASH meeting – feet up on the desk, hands steepled, trying on her best corporate shark vibe. It fit her like a glove. _Wonder how I’d look on the cover of FORBES? Damn, girl, focus._ “You hired them to kill members of your immediate family, even. And you’ve done Daniel some bad turns.”

“True, true and true. But I’ve never tried to murder him.”

Yoga remembered some things Fish had told her about her one and only grandson. “DJ still loves Daniel like a father. Maybe you wish that love was all for you.”

Alexis sucked in a sharp breath. “Low blow.”

“Attempted murder is low-down business.”

“Does my mother know you called me about this?”

“No. I hope we can leave it that way. Don’t you? So help me out here.”

With a sigh, Alexis said, “Daniel’s a doofus. But he’s my doofus younger brother, and I love him. I’d never try to kill him. Sure, I pound his ego into a fine powder any chance I get, but – hell, that’s half the fun.”

That made sense. Yoga wondered if perhaps she’d hung around the Meades too long already.

Other suspects were much closer to hand.

“You were Daniel’s assistant,” Yoga said, trying not to be blinded by the rainbow light from a nearby suncatcher prism. “You two were friends. Then you had a falling out.”

“No,” Natalie said as she rearranged novelty candles shaped like birds rising from orange wax flames. “I was betrayed. Daniel turned his back on me. On the entire Order of the Phoenix. We were his brothers and sisters on the journey, but he abandoned us.”

They sat in the “visitor’s center” of the Order of the Phoenix headquarters – not quite as bustling as it had been during its heyday, according to Fish; the public revelations about their leader’s background had cost them some believers. But not all. A few wan, mournful souls still wandered the halls, and Natalie sat behind a cash register in a small shop that sold books and DVDs titled “Triumph Over Death,” and various New Age knick-knack crap. Right now, she was using a price gun to mark down a purple banner reading “Resurrect Your Spirit!” to 40% off.

“Why do you care about Daniel leaving the Order?” Yoga said. “What’s it to do with you?”

“Don’t you see?” Natalie tugged fitfully at a lock of her hair. “They were going to let me let me ascend – if I’d just been able to guide Daniel on the path. He actually reached Molly at the end. He broke down all the barriers! Daniel actually saw the bridge between life and death! Ask him! But he still walked out. How could anybody do that?”

This all sounded like so much craziness to Yoga, who had high standards for crazy after her first cellmate, Nadine Gasoline, who had started burning down Taco Bells because she believed she had been so instructed by Our Lady of Guadalupe. “So you admit – you’re angry at the man. Angry enough to kill him?”

Natalie cocked her head, her expression pitying. “You don’t get it, do you? If Daniel died, he’d just be reunited with Molly on Level Seven.” Her dark eyes snapped with anger. “He doesn’t deserve anything that great.”

Yoga got out of there as fast as she could. The whole place gave her the creeps.

The conversation with Sofia had suggested that ex-girlfriends might comprise a long list of potential suspects, but the most recent one was in the clear.

“Oh, hey! Are you a friend of Daniel’s?” Trista let her into her Soho studio, beaming and cheerful, and also totally unembarrassed despite the fact that she wore only a pink camisole and matching boyshorts. Also despite the fact that there was another guy in her bed – in a T-shirt and boxers, which must count as dressed for these people. “It’s so awesome to meet you!”

“Where the hell has he got himself to these days?” the guy said. “I haven’t seen him clubbing in a year and a half. What’s up with that? He’s totally over the widower thing, right?”

Yoga stared. “You know Daniel?”

“Tell him Becks says hi,” the guy responded with a grin. “Also tell him thanks for giving me a pickup line with this beautiful babe, huh?”

Trista giggled. “Becks said he could heal my broken heart. Which wasn’t broken or anything, but still, how sweet is that?”

This took a couple of seconds to process. “So you’re completely over Daniel, and you’re dating an old friend of his, and you’re both all right with the whole situation.”

“Yeah, sure,” Becks said. “Daniel never even banged her! Just one hand job.”

“Total quickie,” Trista affirmed.

Yoga tried to keep her eyebrows from rising all the way to her hairline. “Good to know. I’ll tell him you both said hello; how’s that?”

“Awesome! But – ” Trista’s head tilted to one side, sloping her ponytail over her shoulder. “I thought you were investigating, like, a murder or something?”

“Nobody’s dead yet.”

“Oh, okay.” As far as Trista was concerned, that seemed to end the matter. Yoga had already crossed her off the list of suspects; she figured the girl wouldn’t even begin to know how to sabotage a helicopter, even if she wanted to.

When Yoga walked out of the apartment building, she pulled out the list of Daniel’s exes, as compiled by his mother, Amanda Tanen and the “Daniel Meade: Manslut” tag on Gawker.com. It unscrolled to fall all the way down to the sidewalk and puddle at her feet.

Obviously this was going to take a while.

**

“Obviously it’s going to take a while,” Tyler said to Amanda – but really, to himself – as they walked up Lexington Avenue. “He didn’t even know I existed before about six months ago. Mom always knew, so, naturally, she’d had some time to prepare herself.”

“Totally,” Amanda replied. Her face was set, and her platform sandals clomped along the pavement in as rigid a rhythm as if she’d been marching.

“You’re worried.”

Amanda turned her face to him, eyes wide behind her Jackie Os. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t either,” he said, trying to make a joke of it, but the gnawing emptiness in his belly rendered that impossible. The truth was, doing this scared him to death. But not doing it – never confronting or even meeting his birth father – scared him even more. “You’ll be here with me. That means I’m okay, no matter what. Even if he rejects me.”

“That’s not what scares me,” Amanda said.

Tyler frowned at her as their steps slowed. The crowds in this area of New York were a little more refined, their pace just a tad more unhurried than in the rest of the city – but woe betide they block the sidewalk. He drew Amanda to one side. “What do you mean?”

“Cal Hartley’s an awful person,” she blurted out. “Not a little awful. Extra family-value size awful. He used to humiliate Daniel all the time just to show he could. Plus he was gross to Claire. He even fired Wilhelmina, and that was when she wasn’t even trying to blackmail anybody. Just to be mean, and nearly wreck MODE in the bargain. He did a real number on Matt’s head, too; the guy could never decide what he wanted to be mostly because he couldn’t decide what would piss off his father the most.”

Matt Hartley – Tyler’s other brother, the one he had yet to meet. That was a whole other relationship he’d have to deal with down the line, but Tyler resolved not to worry about it today.

Amanda continued, “So if Cal doesn’t reject you, he’s going to … absorb you. Try to take you away from the Meades and from me. Try to turn you all evil inside like he is. Because he’s evil down to the crème filling.”

What would he do, if his father offered him love and acceptance – but the price was turning his back on his mother? Tyler had never considered that before. He knew the answer, though: “I’m not letting him control me. Okay? Just stick by my side.”

“Always.” She said it lightly, as if it were nothing; of course, it was anything but. The weight of her arm on his steadied Tyler and made him strong as he walked up to the Hartley building.

Just as they reached the door, though, Cal Hartley himself walked out. Despite the June heat, he wore a camel-hair coat similar to one Tyler had modeled a couple months ago and thus knew cost about $5000. His gaze was steely, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t particularly tall, which surprised Tyler; apparently his own height sprang from that same rogue gene that Alexis inherited.

Cal saw Tyler about one second later. He froze in place, and Amanda’s hand tightened around Tyler’s elbow. Courage, he told himself, and he said only, “Hello.”

“So, the next step is harassing me at my place of employment.” Cal adjusted the collar of his stupidly expensive, unnecessary coat. “If this escalates, I’ll have to get a restraining order. Let me tell you right now – don’t even think about coming to my home. This entire charade is upsetting enough to my wife as it is.”

“You’re still insisting this is a charade,” Tyler said, surprised at how even his voice was. “You know better. We both understand that. But you won’t admit anything.”

“I admit I got Claire Meade pregnant,” Cal said, surprising him. “But she had an abortion, and that ended the matter. She did that because she used to be a smart woman. Looks like the booze finally rotted her brain, though, because she’ll clutch at any straw to get at me now. To get to you, too.”

 _Was it all a lie?_ Tyler rejected that immediately – he knew better – but it was uncanny how quickly, and destructively, Cal Hartley could get into your head.

Cal continued, “Honestly. Look at you. She couldn’t have found someone better than this for her little game? You don’t look a damn thing like me.”

“That’s right,” Amanda said, stepping between them. “Tyler is _nothing_ like you.”

If Cal understood the insult, he gave no sign. “We’re done here. I meant what I said about the restraining order.” With that, he stalked away, not even glancing back.

After a few moments, Tyler started walking toward the nearest subway stop. Amanda fell in at his side; she said nothing at first, for which he was grateful. He needed a while.

Just before they reached the 6 train, they walked past a bar, one of the old-fashioned ones with wood paneling on the walls and big, comfortable leather booths that practically begged passers-by to stop in, take a load off their feet and forget their troubles for a while. Tyler had been in plenty of those before. He’d never forgotten his troubles for long.

“Tyler,” Amanda whispered. “Are you okay?”

He looked over at her, and just the sight of her face made him smile. As long as that was true … “Better than okay. Because I’m with you.”

The subway steps weren’t exactly the most romantic place in the world to kiss, but it turned out they weren’t half bad.

**

Across town, at the NYRB offices, Betty was wearing a hot pink dress.

She’d hesitated this morning. Her wardrobe was short on gray and black --- but she did have a white sheath dress that didn’t necessarily have to be paired with her chunky turquoise jewelry. She even had a navy blue skirt. Fitting in was possible.

But since when had she worried about fitting in? NYRB seemed like her dream come true … only if it was a place where Betty could be herself. That meant embracing color. Embracing laughter. And learning the value of what wasn’t being said.

 _This fish knows how to swim out of water_ , Betty reminded herself, and hummed a bit of “Part Of Your World” as she eased into her day.

At the morning meeting, the entire group worked on a couple of the other pitches that had required refinement. Betty noted she wasn’t listened to very much yet, but that was only to be expected. She was new and unproved. Plus, her first pitch had fallen short. Now, though, she intended to get another at-bat.

Jackson Noble said, “So, Betty, anything else to tell us about drag queens?”

Though his question seemed sincere enough, she noticed a few stifled smiles around the table. Maybe her subject didn’t seem appropriately “serious” or “highbrow” to some of the trust-fund babies at the table. Her time at MODE had taught her that there were layers to even the most frivolous topics, though, and she’d just discovered another.

“You wanted to know what people weren’t talking about,” Betty said. “They’re not talking about drag kings – women who dress as men.”

She slid a copy of a new book across the table – an obscure volume from a university press, but a well-written one: in other words, the kind of thing the NYRB ate up. On the cover was a photograph from the 1940s of Latina women wearing boxy, hyper-styled men’s suits as they were led toward a squad car, clearly under arrest.

It was so easy to imagine herself in an old newsreel, wearing a defiant black men’s suit and deep red lipstick, her hair slicked into an exaggerated coif, holding up her cuffed wrists and sneering at the cops who’d dared to drag her in. Betty was no drag king, and no criminal, but these women had felt like outsiders too – and that, at least, she understood completely.

“These days, gay culture is culture, at least as far as mainstream fashion is concerned,” she continued. “But there’s an equally strong tradition of cross-dressing among lesbians, and it tends to go unnoticed. This book talks about La Pachuca gangs from the 1940s – Latina lesbians who wore men’s clothes, got mixed up in all kinds of trouble and were usually given more crap about how they dressed than the crimes they committed. I could use that historical basis to talk about the relative invisibility of lesbian drag, at least as compared to the attention currently being paid to cross-dressing men.”

Slowly, Jackson nodded. “Interesting. Not our usual sort of topic, but – when you bring in the scholarly side – show us what we’re not seeing – I like it.”

Betty met the eyes of one of the doubters across the table, and there was no stifling her own smile.

 _“Watch and you’ll see, someday I’ll be part of your world.”_

She couldn’t wait to tell her own Prince Eric about this …

**

“I knew they’d realize you were a genius,” Daniel said later that afternoon, around about the time he would normally have gone home. Of course, he hadn’t gone anywhere else for days and days, so it sort of took the shine off the hour. Betty’s good news helped. “Once you figured out what wasn’t being said.”

“With a little help from you.”

“Hardly. You were the one who put all of that together. I just – put it into practice with you.” Daniel still found it hard to believe he’d had an actual civil conversation with Connor Owens, but that was the kind of miracle Betty worked all the time.

“And showed me how much fun it could be,” she said. “Flirting over the phone isn’t ideal, but – you know, it has its moments.”

“Speaking of which … right before Connor dropped by, you’d brought up a very interesting subject.”

“Oh. Right.” She hesitated, shyer now than she’d been a day ago when they’d been talking for three hours already. “Sex.”

This had seemed so incredibly tantalizing before; now, it was a little more awkward. How did you segue back into that subject? “Well, I’m in favor.”

Betty burst out laughing, and Daniel had to smile. That wasn’t the mood he’d been going for, but it helped. “It’s kind of weird thinking about it, you know? You and me.”

“Kind of, but in a good way.” This was difficult to admit, but Daniel figured if he couldn’t be honest with her, he couldn’t be honest with anyone – and this was all about saying what needed to be said. “I’m a little nervous.”

“About what?”

“Being with you for the first time.”

“Wait – you’re nervous about being with me? You’re the one PLAYBOY called ‘Hef’s Heir Apparent.’”

“That was three years ago!”

“Still. It kind of freaks a normal girl out, you know? I mean, Matt had slept with a lot of girls, but mostly they were just, well, cheap. And even that scared me. You – you’re the one who’s slept with … Angelina Jolie and Sofia Reyes and – okay, you didn’t sleep with Gisele Bundchen, but she was totally willing to go out with you. So you probably _could_ have slept with her. That’s really intimidating.”

A small shadow passed over Daniel’s mood at the mention of Matt Hartley; thinking about Betty’s ex, aka A Guy Who Had Already Gotten To Kiss Betty While Daniel Had Not, was no fun. But he focused on what was important. “None of those girls count.”

“Really? The dictionary must have redefined virginity recently. Significantly redefined.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Daniel shook his head. “Those women only saw the face I showed the world. You know? I could pretend to be this cool, successful, invulnerable guy. Even in bed. I got really good at pretending there.” He swallowed hard; the next was tough to say. But that was the whole point. “With you – I don’t want to pretend. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You know what scares me, what hurts me. All the … small, shabby places inside I hide from everyone else: they’re not hidden from you. It’s hard for me to believe that somebody as amazing as you could see that and still want me.”

“Oh, Daniel.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Don’t you understand how incredible you are? The man you’ve become? I do. I promise, I do.”

That was encouraging, but Daniel still felt more comfortable keeping the focus on her. “And don’t think for one second that I’m, like, comparing you with Angelina Jolie. That was one time in the back of a limo, plus she scratched my back really hard.” Some guys went for that but Daniel definitely did not. “The past couple months – I’ve hardly been able to look at you without making a fool of myself. I notice … your legs, your curves – that blue dress you wore to that apartment I looked at, you know, the loft? I was practically ready to tear that off you. These days – I can’t notice anybody but you.”

“Really?” Betty’s bubbly confidence was such a steady part of her character that it sometimes caught Daniel off-guard when he glimpsed her vulnerability, as he did now. “That’s what you see when you look at me?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “During the last few weeks – Betty, I have thought of so many X-rated uses for a La-Z-Boy recliner – ”

“You too?”

They both started laughing so hard that for a second they couldn’t speak any longer. But talking about this – and thinking about that night at her father’s home, where they’d laid side by side in that recliner, bodies touching from feet to bellies to arms, Betty’s lips only a few inches away from his – it made Daniel’s self-control (always fragile) seriously slip.

Once they could talk again, Betty said, still giggling, “You want me in a recliner?”

He imagined her lying next to him again, this time aware, this time ready, and it was almost enough to make him reel. Quietly, he said, “I want you every way I can have you.”

“Oh,” she whispered, and they were quiet together for a moment that held only the sound of their breathing, the quickening rush of blood in his body. He could imagine her heartbeat rising too, the way her pulse would feel in her throat as he pressed his lips to it. “It’s not like I didn’t always know you were beautiful. There was no missing that. But it’s as if … the day I met you, I just put up this little mental sign that said, ‘not for you.’ You know, it wasn’t happening. No point in daydreaming about it, wanting it, even thinking it. And I didn’t. But that sign has come down and I just – I’m still wrapping my mind around it. I can’t believe it, and I can’t believe I ever didn’t want it, and now – ”

There was only so much a man could take. “I have to see you,” Daniel said.

“You mean – like, on Skype?”

“What? No. Remember all the stuff about the Meade Building zoning forms?”

“Where you have to sign off on the papers after an on-site inspection? Yeah. That’s in a couple days, right?” Betty sounded hopeful. “You’ll have bodyguards for that, so – I could meet you there – ”

“Tonight,” he said.

“Daniel, no. It’s dangerous.”

“First of all, I’m not even sure anybody’s actually deliberately trying to kill me anymore,” he pointed out. “Second, what’s safer than the element of surprise? The killer, if there is one, might have heard I was going to Meade soon. So they won’t expect me to go tonight. It’s the smartest thing to do anyway! Even if you weren’t going to meet me there … but you are, right?”

Betty hesitated. Daniel held his breath. “I don’t know, Daniel. If anything happened –”

“The entire building has security. I’ll even have to call them to make sure you can get in, now that you don’t have a building pass. I’ll take the town car and driver. It’s at least as safe as my staying here, maybe more.” He started looking frantically around his room for his shoes; days of hanging out around the house led to days of wearing nothing but sweatpants and T-shirts. “If I didn’t think we would both be safe – you particularly – I wouldn’t suggest this. But we are. And God, I need to see you.”

“Me too. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Yes. I’ll meet you in your office. In – one hour?”

“A whole hour?” Daniel was aware that this was dangerously close to whining, but come on, hadn’t he waited long enough?

“Some people come home after work and figure a night on their own without Tae Kwon Do lessons is a really good opportunity to put a deep moisturizing oil treatment on their hair.”

“What would you have done if I’d said yes to Skype?”

“Well, then I only would’ve needed half an hour,” she said reasonably.

“Right, got it.” Daniel could envision the scene now. He’d order delivery from their favorite Chinese place, have it ready and waiting for her. Light a couple candles, maybe. Sign the stupid papers and get them out of the way. They could sit side by side on the white leather chaise – he could finally touch her, finally take her in his arms, finally kiss her. “One hour.”

“One hour,” she said, and it was a promise.

So he left a note for his mom, or Tyler, whoever got home first, explaining what he’d done and why. He called in to Meade Building security and told them to admit Betty Suarez, without even mentioning to them that he was coming in too; just because he was acting impulsively didn’t mean he intended to be reckless. They’d be fine as long as they weren’t being watched that very second.

Good jeans. Black T-shirt. A little cologne – not too much, because that always made her sneeze. Daniel checked his hair in the mirror, brushed his teeth, and dashed to the town car so quickly that he nearly tripped down the steps.

As they pulled out, heading toward the Meade Building, an observer across the street said to their cab driver, “Follow that car.”

**

Meanwhile, at a café a few blocks away, a strategy meeting was being held over sparkling water and roast quail.

“I still suspect Connor Owens,” Fish said, shaking her head. “He’s the most obvious candidate. He’s shown that he’s willing to break the law to get ‘revenge’ against Daniel for his relationship with Molly, and a few months in prison won’t have made Connor any softer.”

“A few months in minimum-security executive prison,” Yoga pointed out. “He didn’t do hard time like you and me. Most likely the only thing Connor learned in the big house was tips to lower his golf score.”

“Well, then, whom do you suggest?”

“I got the weirdest vibes off that cult chick. Don’t think she went after him herself, but there might be someone else in the Order of the Phoenix who feels different about it.” Yoga’s phone buzzed, and her eyes widened as she stared at the screen. “Look at that. A clue is calling.”

Claire paused, forkful of quail halfway to her mouth. “What is it?”

“Bribed the dude at the helipad to send me some of the security footage that night. They don’t have anything of the actual crime scene, but all we need is one of our suspects walking in or out.”

She brought the phone to the tabletop. They watched the video on fast forward. And then a figure walked through. Yoga didn’t recognize the face right away, but when Fish stiffened and gasped, she realized whom they were dealing with.

“Oh, my God,” Claire said. “We have to call Daniel. And Betty, too!”

“Betty?”

“I’ll explain later, but the drive-by – that wasn’t an accident. Betty’s in as much danger as Daniel is.”

**

Betty hadn’t been away from MODE long enough to miss it, exactly, but it felt nicely familiar coming through the front door of Meade Publications.

She hadn’t needed to get a security pass since her first day, but the guys were friendly, and within only a minute or two she was walking back toward the locked doors that led to the main elevator bank.

Her pulse thrummed along every inch of her skin, and she found herself touching her hair, her lips, as if checking and double-checking herself before Daniel would see her. Betty knew it was a little rash, running out like this – hardly ideal first-date material –

\--but their first date had been the gala at the Met, when she’d danced in his arms before the Temple of Dendur, with the Heart of Kashmir glowing nearby. So what if she hadn’t known it yet? Tonight was just about being near him. Kissing him. Finally turning her friendship with Daniel into a romance.

She’d even changed into the peacock blue dress he’d mentioned … the one he’d said he wanted to rip off her. Not that she necessarily thought they’d go there tonight – but it wasn’t out of the question, and if Daniel _did_ try to rip her dress off, Betty was pretty sure she would have no objections.

 _This is it,_ she thought. _This is the night everything changes for us. Forever._

Even though her cheeks flushed with excitement, Betty felt a small twinge of sadness, too. It wasn’t so strange, really; her friendship with Daniel had been one of the most meaningful of her life. Letting it go made her a little melancholy, even if they were moving on to something better. It was okay to feel that moment of loss, to acknowledge it, before walking into their brighter future.

Behind her, she heard the security door chirp; some staffer was coming in as well. Daniel would have come from the garage entrance, so it couldn’t be him. Betty profoundly hoped it wouldn’t be anybody she knew. This was the wrong time to have to trade barbs with Marc. Or pretend to be nice to Sofia. Or, God forbid, run into Claire Meade, who would no doubt be livid that Betty had tempted Daniel out of his safe fortress.

Just in case it was somebody she knew, though, Betty glanced over her shoulder as she stepped in the elevator, determined to be polite – and gasped.

The security pass hung on a dark red strap she recognized … one that had belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Matt Hartley.

It was now dangling from the wrist of his mother, Victoria.

From the same hand in which she held the gun.

 

THE END

 

 _Next episode in “Season Five: New York, New York” – “Blood and Roses.”_

 _(Songs: “Pink Champagne,” Venus Hum; “Hold You In My Arms,” Ray LaMontagne; “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon,” Waldeck)_


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